A Nice Simple Date With Complications
by Mr Sinister
Summary: Bobby Drake and Emma Frost actually made it to their second date! What will happen next? Does Bobby even want to know?


**_A Nice Simple Date_**

**_With Complications_**

   The limousine pulls up in front of the theatre, and I immediately move to push the door release lever so that the two of us can get out. Before I can do that, though, Emma lays a gloved hand across the top of my knuckles and shakes her head gently, a knowing smile crossing her lips. 

   "I wouldn't do that just yet, Bobby," she laughs, tapping the smoky mirrored glass of the limo's window with a fingertip. "There are bound to be photographers and dirt-sheet reporters out there, who are just _dying to get a glimpse of us. You have to understand that you must keep these people waiting, if you want them to stay interested in you."_

   I make a confused face, just to ensure that Emma knows how weirded-out by that I am, and then try to see what she's talking about by peering through the window as best I can. Predictably, I can't see a thing through the glass' opaque surface, and I'm left none the wiser. "Are you sure there are photographers out there, Emma?" I say, stupidly. And before I can make amends myself for being so dense, Emma gives me a scathing look to make me pay for it.

   "Which one of us is the telepath, Robert?" she says, before adjusting the straps of her high-heels and fluffing her fur so that it sits more delicately on her shoulders. "Trust me when I say that there are photographers out there. I can sense them and their money-grubbing little reporter friends from here. They all want to be the first to catch a glimpse of the famous Emma Frost and her new boy-toy – and yes, Robert, you should feel grateful that I'm calling you that. I _could be calling you my new social disaster, after all." She nuzzles my neck affectionately, tracing her tongue along the tensed lines of my jaw muscles, and then she squeezes my hip with her hand. "Now come on, Bobby – we have a public we have to appease. You don't want to disappoint them, do you?"_

   "Um… is there a right answer to that question?" Emma laughs and takes me by the hand, before signalling to her driver that she wants to leave the car.

   "Well, if you want to find that out, Bobby, you'd better do it now." As the door to the limo opens, I'm almost immediately dazzled by the amount of flash bulbs going off all at once. I'm tempted to use my powers to ice them all up and stop them from taking away my sight, but Emma grips my hand and shakes her head slightly. _No, Bobby, she tells me telepathically. __Just follow me – and do try not to fall over. They adore it when you fall over – it gives them an excuse to make up stories about you being a lesbian drug addict, who's just begging for a stay in the Betty Ford Clinic. Not that I'd actually mind__ being called a lesbian, mind you – I've been accused of far worse in my time. She strides ahead of me elegantly before the impact of that last statement has time to register in my brain, her long creamy-coloured legs just occasionally visible through the slit in the side of her dress, and her hand gripping mine reassuringly. __Just keep walking, she continues without a pause. __You might like to just give them a little wave here and there, though – they like it when you acknowledge they're alive._

   Following her advice, I sheepishly wave to the gathered crowds of reporters – all the while being painfully aware that I'm not the one they want to see. Emma takes the attention like a pro, flashing a demure smile every so often and making sure that she looks as elegant and poised as she always does. Her smooth pace carries her to the entrance of the theatre in less time than I thought she'd take, and once we're inside, I feel her let her self-confident mask slip for a second or two, relief flooding into my mind before she remembers herself and straightens out her dress a little.

   "Tell anyone about that little indiscretion and I'll kill you," she says quietly, giving me a look that reinforces the fact that she means business.

   I hold my hands up and take a step backwards. "Hey, I didn't hear a thing, ma'am." Then, jerking a thumb towards the auditorium, I continue "You wanna find our seats right this minute, or would you like to go for a beer before the show?" I shrug. "I always find a beer helps me loosen up before something like this – Hank is always telling me that I shouldn't –  he always says that I should 'enjoy the theatre as it's meant to be seen'." I grin momentarily as Hank's exasperated blue face swims into my memory for a moment or two. I can see the horror and embarrassment on his face already. "And then I always tell him that Shakespeare probably wrote his plays for a drunken audience. Shuts him right up."

   Emma raises an eyebrow. "Pardon me if I find that ever-so-slightly hard to believe," she says coolly. "It's been my experience that Henry McCoy never stays quiet even when he has very little to say. Are you sure you weren't dealing with his evil twin?"

   That makes me laugh out loud. "I don't think so, Emma. Hank and that bizarro double of his are two totally different people, remember?"

   Emma sighs and massages her temples with her fingertips. "Oh yes, I forgot that Henry actually _has an evil twin. Such a shame some of us have to just make do with an evil younger sister…" She grins suddenly, an amusing thought obviously having struck her. "Do you know, I think having an evil twin might be fun – at least some of the time, anyway. I mean, you could compare notes on business, on people, on…" and she smiles at me with half-lidded eyes, "relationships. Why, you could even do a switch, and nobody would even know about it. Such possibilities…"_

   Reaching forward, I tap gently on her forehead with a bunched fist. "Hello? Evil twin? Are you in there?" Ignoring Emma's withering look, I point towards the bar. "Come on, your evilness – alcohol awaits. Buy you a drink?"

   "Thank you, Robert," Emma says, and takes my hand delicately. "I think I can spare the time for one or two brandies, after all."

   The bar is large, open, and packed with people in tuxedos and evening gowns. "Holy crap," I mutter, a little unnerved. "I haven't seen this many dinner jackets since we had that James Bond party at the mansion." 

   Emma laughs. "I'm sure you were the star of the show, Bobby. A shame I couldn't have been there to be your Pussy Galore, though. I think I'd have looked good in jodhpurs, don't you?" She grins naughtily, and then nods casually towards the huddled mass of people. As if by magic, a corridor of people opens up and we have a clear path to the bar. "Now come on – we haven't much time." She sashays up to the barman and urges me to follow her. When I reach the bar, I flip open my wallet and take out a twenty-dollar bill.

   "Just, uh, give me anything that's on draft," I say, a little flustered (when you're with a woman who can clear paths through crowds like Moses through the Red Sea, it can get just a _little freaky), "and, uh, a large brandy for the lady." I hand the bill to the barman while waiting for him to pour me out a tall glass of beer, and to fill a brandy glass. Emma takes her drink with raised eyebrows, before swirling them around a little and inhaling the odour of the liquor. _

   "Thank you, Bobby," she says, after she takes her first mouthful. "This is nice. Would you like some?" She offers me the glass, but I hold my free hand up and shake my head.

   "No, thank you, Emma," I tell her. "I don't think beer and hard liquor mix that well."

   In response, Emma shrugs and sips some more of her drink. "I suppose you're right. Oh, well – more for me, I guess." She winks at me. "Perhaps when that's gone through your system, we can indulge ourselves at home?"

   That makes me almost inhale the mouthful of beer that I'm just about to swallow, and it takes me a few minutes to recover before I can croak "Sure – why not?"

   Emma is just about to reply when a voice comes over the speaker system, telling us to get into our seats. After the announcement has finished, Emma throws back the rest of her drink and says "Typical bad timing," before tapping the side of my glass and continuing "Would you like some help with that? I'm sure I could handle just a little beer, don't you?"

   I shake my head. "No, I'm fine, Emma. Thanks for the offer, though." Tipping my head back, I gulp down the remaining contents of my glass with several successive swallows. Then, gasping for breath, I stand – slightly light-headedly, it has to be said – and offer Emma my hand. "Shall we?"

   "Why not?" Emma replies. "Follow me – my booth is this way…" She leads me away from the bar and towards the auditorium, and then towards a set of double doors on the right side of the entranceway. "It's just up these stairs," she continues, wrapping her fur around her shoulders a little more closely. "It's not far." When we get to the top of the stairs, there is a single set of doors in front of us, with two other sets of double doors spaced out to either side. Emma rummages in her handbag for something and eventually produces a small metal key, with which she unlocks the doors. Swinging them open, she shows me what's inside – a booth that has décor to put the mansion to shame. The seats are covered with red velvet and are polished so smartly that I can see my face in them, and the booth itself is covered in flawless paints and varnishes.

   "Oh my," I say, simply. "This must've cost a fortune." Emma waves a hand dismissively.

   "Less than you might think, actually," she says. "Anyway, I made sure to buy this one on a permanent basis – the view from here is the best in the entire house." She sets down her bag and then throws her fur over the back of the chair, before she sits down herself and stretches her legs out to their full length, her white shoes reflecting the light softly. "And we get some privacy, as well – I don't really think you want to be down there getting popcorn thrown at you, do you?"

   "I dunno, Emma – I kinda like having popcorn thrown at me. Getting free munchies can't be a bad thing, right?"

   Emma raises her eyes to the ceiling. "You're beyond hope, Bobby Drake," she sighs, patting the top of my head as if I'm a schoolboy. "Completely beyond hope."

   I grin at her and make as goofy a face as possible. "Hey, I gotta be me."

   Emma sticks her tongue out at me, and then points at the stage. "I think you'd better concentrate on doing something else – like being quiet. The show is about to begin." To underline her point, the theatre's lights start to dim and the heavy velvet curtain rises to the ceiling, exposing the stage behind it. From what I can tell, the set is very well-decorated, with a kitchen area marked out at the centre, with a table and three chairs, and a refrigerator. At the back of the kitchen area is a draped-off doorway, but I can't really see what's behind that yet. To the right of the kitchen, I can see, on a level two feet above it, a room with a bedstead and a chair, and a trophy set on a mantelpiece above the bed. Behind the kitchen, I can just about see another bedroom, raised even higher than the first, and at the left of the set, a staircase runs up to the second bedroom from the kitchen. In the background, I can hear a flute playing softly. The tune is pretty downbeat, mournful, and it sets the scene pretty well because of that.

   As I'm watching the stage to see what's what, an old man walks on stage, all hunched over, as if he's worried about something or other. Even from all the way up here in our box, I can hear him muttering "Oh boy, oh boy," to himself. 

   A moment or two after he appears, a woman calls out "Willy!" from her bed at the right of the stage, and I can see that she's about the same age as the guy in the suit. She looks worried – sad, almost – and even though we did an exam on this play back in school, I still find myself wondering why. I sit forward in my chair and rest my chin on my hand, watching the stage intently. 

*

The curtain falls at the end of the second act (after at least three curtain calls by the cast,) and I turn to Emma, who says "Did you have a good time, Bobby?" in a light tone. I shrug, sheepishly.

   "It's that obvious, huh?"

   "I'm afraid so," Emma replies, straightening out her dress as she stands up. "Even if I weren't psychic, I'd still be able to tell – those boyish good looks of yours are easier to read than a picture book."

   I pull one side of my mouth up in a rueful smile. "I was that bad?" Emma shakes her head and taps me on the back of my hand in a mock-reproachful manner. Her expression indicates that she disagrees with my assessment of the situation completely, and she leans closer to my face so that our gazes can meet, her ice-blue eyes stealing my attention away from anything else in the room. 

   "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Bobby – I think it's endearing." She kisses me gently on the lips before she walks over to the door behind us and says "I'm going to get something to drink before we leave – I think my throat is parched. Would you like to join me?"

   "You know, Emma, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you had a drinking problem," I tell her lightly, as I get to my feet and follow her towards the door of our booth. "Of course I'd like to join you, stupid." Ignoring the annoyed look she gives me, I continue "So what did you think of the show, then?" 

   Emma scratches her head and adjusts her tiara for a moment or two before answering. "I… thought it was a good production. I thought the lead actor was very good, and conveyed the emotion of the character very well, and I also thought the actress playing his wife was very well-chosen. I didn't like the actors playing the sons, but they were just about presentable – they weren't really bad enough to ruin the play for me. I did feel that the set could have had more spent on it, and I thought some of the costumes were a little too pristine – but other than that, I enjoyed it a great deal. What about you? I got most of what you thought when we were watching, but not all of it. Could you… fill in the gaps for me?"

   That makes me stop short, even though we're still only halfway down the staircase. "You're… _asking me what I thought? I thought you'd have just __taken that by now – you know, what with you being a telepath who has a reputation for that kind of thing and all. What's up with that?"_

   "Call it a change of policy," Emma says, shrugging. She clears her throat and spreads her hands to either side of her body, as if she is trying to set me at ease by showing me she has nothing to hide. "Just this once, I'm willing to do things the conventional way." She rolls her tongue across her upper front teeth briefly, as if she is trying to free some trapped food – I think she is deliberately making me wait, as if that will make up for her not using her telepathy. "So – what did you think?"

   "I dunno. I kinda liked it," I say, simply. "I remember studying it at school, sure, but seeing it on stage is a whole lot different – this was a lot better than listening to the Professor's over-acting and trying to pretend that Jean is a woman drawing Social Security." Emma raises an eyebrow, and blinks in relief.

   "So _that's what I could sense. I thought you were just hallucinating."_

   "Nah. My hallucinations are a lot more exciting, most of the time," I say, laughing and nudging Emma in the ribs. She holds up a hand immediately and purses her lips, her expression clearly one that means I should shut up.

   "I don't even want to _know, Drake," she says acidly. "If they involve me in any way, shape or form, I'll brain-wipe you before you can blink."_

   "Easy, tiger," I tell her. "I wouldn't dream of it. I value my brain too much."

   "You know, you're smarter than you look," Emma replies, in an approving tone. "Getting back to the original _point… what else did you think of the play?"_

   "Good call for changing the subject, Emma," I say, almost as keen as she is to get the conversation back on the rails. "Like I said, I liked seeing it on stage a lot better than reading it out of a book. The Professor might be a genius – but as an actor, he makes a great mutant telepath. And poor Jeannie had to do every female part, too, which meant that she got five times the work the rest of us did." I pause for a moment, to remember the pity I felt for Jean when I was a kid. She needed it back then, where English was concerned. "This was a lot better, because I could actually see what was going on. I thought the lead guy was pretty cool as well – I could really tell what he was going through. I thought the flashback parts were a bit weird, though – I didn't like the way that they changed all the lighting whenever that happened. Made my head hurt."

   Emma nods in agreement. "Yes, that wasn't the best aspect of the show, was it? I thought they could have made it a _little less obvious." She shrugs. "Oh well… ours not to reason why, I suppose."_

   "Yeah, I guess there must be _some reason why we're not putting on plays, right?" I put my arm around Emma's waist, my hand resting on her perfectly-formed hip, and she leans into me, her fur pressing against my shoulder and tickling my neck. I kiss her forehead gently before I realise I've done it, and then continue speaking without much of a pause. "Wait… now I remember – I don't do this kind of thing because I still have bad memories of being a cloud in my kindergarten's Nativity play." _

   Emma looks at me, an expression of stunned amusement on her face. "You were a _cloud?"_

   "Yeah, they didn't want me to be left without anything to do – so I had to hang around next to the Star leading the Wise Men from the East, wearing a fluffy costume and not saying anything." I slap my forehead theatrically with the back of my hand. "I looked like a freakin' sheep – I think it put me off theatre for life." As we approach the doors of the theatre's foyer, I can feel the cold air beginning to blow in as people leave, and I automatically draw Emma closer to me so that she won't freeze, slipping my arm around her shoulders and making sure that we are as close as possible. She doesn't resist, but instead draws her body closer to mine, her pace quickening to keep up with me.  

   "I'm not surprised," Emma says as we approach the theatre's exit, still looking as if she's ready to start giggling at any moment. "I remember when I had to play the innkeeper at my school's Nativity celebration as a little girl – I had one line, and I had to wear the most ridiculous false mustache I had ever seen. It covered half my face and smelled of fish – don't ask me _why it smelled of fish, but it did…" She mimes closing her nostrils with her fingertips. "I'm surprised I was able to breathe, it stank so badly." Then a small smile crosses her lips. "I can still remember my parents thinking I was the best thing about that play, despite the fact that I didn't say my line right and made my mustache fall off."_

   "Yeah, my folks were like that, too," I agree. "They clapped so hard, I swear their hands were still red half an hour after the play ended."

   Emma kisses my neck, a brief peck on the skin with her soft lips – just enough for me to catch the scent of her perfume and to feel her mouth on my throat. "I'm sure they were justified. My parents probably would have made a louder noise for Cordelia, if she'd been anything more than a baby at that point – she was always more theatrically inclined, after all. I was always trying to get out of things like that, if I could." She chuckles. "Would you believe I once said that I'd been bitten by a bear at the zoo, just so I could get out of rehearsals?"

   "You know, I think I do believe that," I say. "I remember one time that I said that the Man in the Moon had stolen a piece of cherry pie that I'd eaten. Of course this _was only last week, so I don't know if that makes it any better than your bear story, but –"_

   Emma bursts out laughing suddenly. "You're insane, Bobby Drake," she manages in between her laughter, slapping me gently in the chest with her hand.

   "Hey, it's my gimmick," I tell her, holding the door of the theatre open for her so that she can leave before me. "Without that, I'd be just another super-powered guy in a costume. Or even worse, I'd be Scott." I slap my forehead. "Oy… now _there's a fate worse than death." _

   "Scott isn't exactly the life of the party, is he?" Emma agrees, as she walks out into the night air, the slight breeze blowing her blonde hair out to one side slightly. She looks up at the night sky and scowls as some small raindrops fall on her face and hands. "Oh, that's just typical, isn't it?" she mutters acidly. "And the evening was going so well, too."

   "Never fear, my lady," I say, in my best Cyclops-impersonation. "Captain Utility is here to save the day!" Opening out my hand, I concentrate and produce first the handle and then the body of an open umbrella. "Gene Kelly I most certainly ain't, but this should keep the rain off you until we can find that limo of yours." Reaching close to her, I hold the ice-umbrella over her head so that she is shielded from the deepening drizzle. Emma glances up at my creation and then points at it with a gloved finger, her expression showing that she's not entirely sure about what I've made for her.

   "Are you sure that this won't melt as soon as you lose your concentration?" she asks sceptically. "I don't want to get drenched just because you forgot it was there."

   "Emma… I'm shocked and appalled that you think I would be so forgetful as to let you get soaked," I say, trying my hardest to sound hurt. "Why, these things'll last for as long as I want them to – and there's no limit to how many I can produce. I mean, I can keep this umbrella together while doing… oh, I don't know, this?" Without another word, I extend my other hand and crook it as if I'm holding something. I concentrate again, ice forming in the empty air between my fingers and my thumb, and collecting itself into the form of a bunch of perfectly-formed roses, wrapped in a cone of paper-thin frost. When the ice-roses are fully materialised, I hold them out for Emma. "For you, ma'am – compliments of your date."

   Emma raises an eyebrow. "Now you're just showing off, Bobby."

   I shrug, before throwing the roses to one side, so that they shatter on the ground. "Sure. But at least I get better results than most of the guys at the mansion – I mean, when Scott shows off, all you get are a pile of silver dollars with holes in the middle. And I'm not even going to _mention the time that Logan tried to carve a totem pole with his claws…"_

   Emma rolls her eyes. _"Men," she mutters, as if that one word could condemn my half of the human race. Then, she reaches into her purse and draws out her mobile phone, before pointing to it with an index finger that's cocked like a gun. "Would you mind? I want to call Lawrence – I don't want to be stood out here for longer than I have to. I don't want a repeat of last time…"_

*

   When we arrive back at Emma's house, she immediately runs upstairs, after telling me to wait a little while. Ten minutes later she comes back downstairs, having changed out of her dress into a white trouser suit, under which she is wearing what looks to be a white leather corset, which has straps running across the front that push her breasts up and together, so that it's pretty impossible to avoid noticing them. "Holy crap," I say, before I can stop myself. "I think I just had a heart attack."

   Emma laughs, and blows me a kiss. "That's the general idea, Bobby. I find this outfit helps when I'm dealing with business rivals – if I distract people enough, then they don't notice I'm manipulating them."

   "You're not… messing with my head right now, are you?" I ask, uncertainly. "Only I promised my mommy I'd be a good boy, and I don't think you're a very good girl…"

   Emma grins. "Very perceptive of you. Every time I think I've seen everything, you surprise me. Well done, Bobby – not many people are able to do that… but to answer your question: no, I'm not doing anything to you right now, I promise. Hand on my heart." She puts her right hand over her chest to show she's sincere, and then winks at me. "Trust me, Bobby." 

   "Yeah, that's the problem, Emma," I say, forlornly. "I think I do."

   Emma chuckles enigmatically, and then takes my hand and leads me into the drawing room, before she brings out the decanter of whiskey again. "Would you like a nightcap?" she asks curiously, as she pours herself a half-measure of the golden-brown liquid. "And no, Bobby, this isn't something I do every night," she adds, as if to cut me off. "I only do it when I have company."

   "I don't doubt it," I say firmly. "But I think I'll pass, this time. I can't really drink that much – I don't know how Logan manages it. Well, I _do, but I don't understand how he'd want to drink so much that he'd be falling on his face by the end of the evening. If I drank that much I'd end up praying to the porcelain god before the night was half-over. Which is never fun."_

   Emma fixes me with her brilliant blue eyes and takes a short sip of her drink, before she sits down on the sofa and pats the cushion next to her. "Come on, Bobby – sit with me." Moving over towards her, I slump down into the plush cushion and then shift a couple of times to get comfortable, the springy seat taking the uneven pressure without much trouble. Emma waits until I have got settled before she continues speaking, at which point she says, quite earnestly, "I really enjoyed tonight, you know." 

   "I did, too," I reply, equally honestly. "I didn't think I would, but I had a good time. Thanks for letting me come along."

   _"De nada," Emma says. "I'm glad you had fun."_

   We kiss then – a long, lingering kiss that makes my head spin. Emma's lips taste of whiskey and smoke, her tongue gently probing between my lips as she melts against me. Then, after what seems like forever, Emma breaks the kiss, and whispers "I'd like it if you stayed, Bobby."

   I blink, trying to get some air back into my lungs with a couple of deep breaths. "I'd… like that, too," I reply, still not sure whether I've got enough oxygen. "There's just one little problem."

   Emma raises her eyebrows, a concerned look washing over her face – the first time I've ever seen something like that, it has to be said. "What?"

   "I don't think Scott's going to be very happy that I ditched the team for you."

   The concern on Emma's face vanishes, to be replaced by a tired smile, and she taps me on the nose with a long forefinger. "Shut up, Drake. Before I change my mind."


End file.
